


Forests, Lakes and Lost Places

by midautumnnightdream



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: A Wild Art Appears, Bahorel is Almost a sensible friend but only to Prouvaire, Canon Era, Cross-Posted on Tumblr, Joly & Bossuet make a brief appearance, M/M, Poetry Smash Week 2018, Romantic Friendship, Romantic hjinks, and also just plain small-r romance, in which Courfeyrac is the Sensible Friend, it's complicated - Freeform, sorta - Freeform, well "art"
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-02
Updated: 2018-08-02
Packaged: 2019-06-20 16:34:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15538416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/midautumnnightdream/pseuds/midautumnnightdream
Summary: All that Bahorel and Jean Prouvaire truly yearned for was the liberation of human soul and someone willing to rent an apartment tobothof them.(No one has ever accused Romantics for lacking grandeur in their vision)





	Forests, Lakes and Lost Places

September, 1831

* * *

The afternoon was already turning into an evening, when the everyday idyll of the Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire was interrupted by a loud bang of the front door of No 8 being slammed open with full force. The tall fellow in a waistcoat quite as alarming as the racket he was making hardly seemed to notice the effect his appearance had on the quietly respectable neighbourhood, for he was still facing the doorway he had exited from, only briefly distracted from his obvious indignation to allow for the passage of another young man, of notably quieter disposition, if no less oddly dressed.

“– weren’t so absorbed in admiring your own bloated mediocrity that your head is so far up in your – I’m sorry, you were saying?” the last words were addressed to his companion, now leaning against the portico and observing the scene with an impression of vague curiosity.

“All I was saying,” Jean Prouvaire answered mildly, “is that there was a certain degree of inevitability to the outcome of this parley, which I know you were well aware of, for you made note of it before setting about storming this impenetrable fortress”. He cast the affluent-looking house in front of them an almost mournful look. “Alas, the corruptible influences of the civilization are far-reaching, and it’s poisons have seeped deep into Parisian soil.”

“To be sure,” Bahorel agreed, his annoyance not so much dissipating as settling into a deep and satisfying wellspring of righteous indignation. “What a thought, to rent an apartment! Ha!” He turned back to his companion, warming to the subject. “Such a bourgeois notion, to see that a man has a need of his own corner under the sky and to keep it away, to hold it at ransom – for what? Not only for personal greed, but to enforce conformity of thought, of behaviour, of _appearance_. For the enjoyment of looking him in the eye and saying “Not for the likes of you”. Well my friend, as long as this accursed city dances to the piping of the likes of _him_ –”

“You are still here?” The displeased voice of the immaculately dressed man on the doorway had all the effect of a cupful of tepid water poured down one’s collar – not dangerous or even particularly alarming an experience, but unpleasant nevertheless. For a moment it seemed to Jean Prouvaire as if Bahorel was seriously considering slamming the still-open door against the man’s scrunched-up nose, but even as the mental image took hold, he could see the glint in the other’s eyes that he loved and dreaded in equal measure.

“I’m sorry, but we really must get going,” Bahorel suddenly boomed, loud enough to startle even the half of the street that hadn’t already been treated to his earlier tirade. People stopped and turned to stare; the first-floor window of No 6 cracked open, admitting a very annoyed looking head of an elderly man. “I’m sure we’ll see each other soon – at the next performance of _Marion de Lorme_ if no earlier? Some of our fellows are holding court at Rue du Doyenne and they have gotten their hands on a new mixture of opiates you are going to _love_ – and don’t forget the meeting in the catacombs at the next full moon. Until later, citizen.” He touched his hand to the brim of his hat, as the poor bourgeois, ground to halt by utter shock, could only gape. Jean Prouvaire, flushing with both mortification and restrained laughter, offered their reluctant host a full courtly bow and not trusting himself to speak, added a few elaborate hand signs he had observed from the Freemasons for full measure, before turning around to accept the arm his companion had reached out to him. An eyebrow raised in challenge was met with a wicked grin, and before the bourgeois on the doorstep had a chance to do more than to squawk in indignation, the pair was carousing down the street in an impromptu version of the Infernal Galop, the lack of preparation and participants more than made up by raucous enthusiasm, with the loud ire of the elderly neighbour forming a perfect counterpoint.

* * *

“Well, that was certainly amusing,” Bahorel observed, several streets down and fifteen minutes later, stopping to catch his breath and tug at his collar. “But as edifying as this day has been on the variety in biases and bigotry of Parisian house owners, we are no closer to finding a new residence than this morning. Do you reckon your old concierge would mind us hunkering down there for one more night?”

Prouvaire made an attempt at answering, but only managed something between a shrug and a gasp. Frustrated, he plopped down right there in the middle of the street and set about struggling out of his overlong coat – a splendid piece of tailoring that had travelled a long way from it’s place of origin at an amateur performance of _Henry VIII_ – even as he fought to catch his breath, seemingly unaware of the strange looks he was garnering from the passersby.

“She’d allow it, I assume,” he acknowledged hesitantly. “But I’m reluctant to ask. After her son was arrested with the textile workers, she really cannot afford more police scrutiny and if Enjolras is right about us being placed under a watch...”

“Which he probably is,” Bahorel nodded. “There have been far too many odd coincidences lately and the situation is heating up again. Those news from Warsaw...” He shook his head. “No, you are right, that would be an unnecessary risk. The fact that she agreed to store both of our belongings for a few more days is already a great indulgence, even with our friends holding onto the more inflammatory materials.”

“And we burned the bridges with _your_ former landlord quite thoroughly,” Jean Prouvaire added, fighting back a grin.

Bahorel had no such compunctions; the expression lighting up his face could only be described as unholy glee. “And what a fine blaze that was! Though I must admit, while the quotes you painted on the walls were most inspired, the artistic quality of our murals left something to be desired. Not that he deserves any better. Narrow-minded philistine.”

Jean Prouvaire shook his head forlornly, finally managing to extract himself from the deviously laced coat and getting back to his feet. “It is the miasmas of this unhappy city, as I said.” He made a vague gesture, meant to encompass the street ahead of them and the arrondissements beyond. “The noxious influences of uncaring civilization corrupting the inborn goodness of humankind.”

Bahorel’s eyebrows shot up. “Well, that may be, but I for one wouldn’t give up on Paris just yet – would you?” The tone of his voice clearly implied that he considered the very idea beyond ridiculous, but there was undercurrent of wariness there that surprised Jean Prouvaire. He hastened to offer his denial, shaking his head quickly.

“No, most certainly not. All I mean to say is that when choked by the tendrils of corrupt civilisation, one could do worse than to find an outlet in getting closer to the earth.”

Bahorel shook his head, the devilish glint of amusement in his eyes the only hint of the relief that was nevertheless clear in his voice. “Ah, Prouvaire my friend. Je-han,” he added, turning the later name into two syllables, a peculiar marking of his preferred spelling that would have annoyed Jean Prouvaire when coming from anyone else. “As much as I enjoy and appreciate our occasional detours into the catacombs, I must say that I’d draw the line on moving in there permanently. The lighting and the ventilation leave something to be desired – we’d catch our deaths down there, if you pardon me for saying so, and Joly would scold us.”

Jean Prouvaire whacked lightly at his companion’s arm, a move that caused Bahorel to catch hold of the offending elbow and ducking it through his own once again. “ _Not_ what I meant and you know it. As I was _saying_ ,” he continued primly. “Even as we mock bourgeois complacency, we are in danger of falling into the same trap by ourselves. Does one always need to inhabit an apartment? The earthly possessions are vanity and the weather is still warm –”

“It’s September,” Bahorel noted. “And it’s going to rain tonight.”

Jean Prouvaire huffed in annoyance at the interruption. “You disagree?”

“I’m making an observation,” Bahorel answered calmly. “Please do continue.”

Prouvaire wasn’t entirely mollified. “How do you even know that it’s going to – never mind.” He stopped suddenly, pulling his companion into a standstill as well. He pivoted on the spot and gave Bahorel the most sombre look he could muster. “Bahorel. My dearest friend.” He paused for a moment, fighting down the sudden inexplicable flush these words brought into his cheeks. Bahorel, to his credit, waited patiently for him to continue, his expression one of perfect restraint.

“I propose,” Jean Prouvaire continued, the words slow and almost ceremonial. “That to purge our souls from the adverse effects of civilisation we have accumulated over the course of this very frustrating day, and to confront our own biases and materialistic tendencies, we should spend the coming night under the cover of stars and allow this very earth to be our bed and pillow.”

Bahorel nodded seriously, his whole countenance betraying nothing but the utter solemnity befitting for the occasion. “A worthy undertaking to be sure, but one that deserves more dignified surroundings than such a benighted boulevard. Have you got a venue in mind that could serve as our bedroom for the night?”

“Ah..” Jean Prouvaire flushed again, indescribably annoyed at himself. What was it about Bahorel looking at him with such warmth and seriousness that always made him forget the words on his tongue? “I confess I hadn’t thought so far ahead. Luxembourg could be an obvious choice, but if we are to shed ourselves of bourgeois preconceptions, it is hardly what one would consider the ideal scene.”

“Moreover the gates will be closed for the night,” Bahorel nodded. “Getting in would be easy enough matter, but it wouldn’t do to search for freedom of the soul, while being locked up in a cage like the giraffe in Jardin des Plantes. As it happens, I have a most splendid location in mind – just answer me this:” His composure slid ever so slightly, allowing a teasing glint to glimmer through. “Have you ever actually slept outside before?”

“Oh,” Jean Prouvaire floundered for a moment, giving a small wave of his hand that was no doubt meant to be casual, but only succeeded in looking vaguely questioning. “To be sure. It has been, uh, awhile.”

Bahorel nodded. “Would the exploration of our preconceived materialistic tendencies be terribly compromised, if we were to supply ourselves with some blankets?”

* * *

It had been only a few weeks since Courfeyrac had decided to give up residence in Latin Quarter and locate himself closer to the revolutionary activities on the right bank – a move which, Jean Prouvaire thought grumpily, had gone much more smoothly than their current attempt, no doubt helped along by Courfeyrac’s unfortunately irreproachable fashion sense.

Nevertheless, a deplorable taste for high-collared shirts was far too petty a thing to hold against a friend as affectionate and generous as Courfeyrac: Prouvaire and Bahorel had assisted in moving his belongings and were thus well acquainted with both the new apartment at Rue de la Verrerie and Courfeyrac’s endless-seeming collection of pillows and blankets, even a spare mattress, all deliberately purchased to better accommodate any friends and acquaintances who might find themselves in dire straits.

As of now, their magnanimous friend was looking at them with an expression that could only be described as polite skepticism. “You know, you are more than welcome to spend the night here. It will be cozy, but if we set both mattresses on the floor, it should fit all three of us comfortably enough.”

Prouvaire shook his head. “My friend, you are missing the crux of the matter. This is not only a choice we are propelled towards through society’s disdain for unorthodox, but also an act of social protest and a search for the liberation of the soul.”

“Through freezing.” Courfeyrac tilted his head. “Paris is full of such unfortunates. I doubt they are finding much liberation and as an act of protest, it’s not going to garner much notice.”

Jean Prouvaire gave him an enigmatic smile. “ _We_ will know.”

“You are both quite mad,” Courfeyrac answered fondly, letting his gaze slid from one friend to the other, both of them infuriatingly unreadable. “Very well, have your blankets. Where are you setting up your camp?”

Prouvaire gave him a long-suffering look, accompanied by a truly dramatic eye-roll. “If only I knew! Bahorel has discovered he has a mysterious streak. It suits him terribly and I wish you’d tell him so.”

Bahorel merely smirked. “Would you have me ruin a perfect surprise?” He spied a piece of paper and quickly wrote down a few lines, which he passed to Courfeyrac, ignoring a loud huff of frustration behind him.

Courfeyrac glanced at the paper and whistled. “That’s a long way! But no matter, I have a bit of a wager in mind,” he grinned. “If you actually last out there until the morning, I’ll come and find you with pastries and coffee. However, should you turn up shivering on my doorstep at three in the morning – no.” He frowned at the address. “Make that Joly’s doorstep – then you are the ones providing breakfast.”

Bahorel laughed. “Then you know you have already doomed your side of the bet. No outcome that’s going to benefit Bossuet is all that likely to make an appearance, least it gets turned into a delightful farce of unlikely proportions.”

“Now you have truly doomed us,” Courfeyrac scoffed. “Off with you – and don’t you dare to catch pneumonia out there, or Joly won’t let _any_ of us hear the end of it.”

* * *

“Here we go,” Bahorel declared, looking inordinately pleased with himself, as he gestured his companion forwards. “What do you think?”

Jean Prouvaire looked around curiously. Truly, the little meadow, perched between the Glacière on one side and the little river of Gobelins on the other, had the charm usually associated with buildings in early stages of decay – unneeded and uncared for, the end already within reach of the imagination, but not yet dilapidated or beyond utility. The meadow was not abandoned, for all that it seemed so at this hour: the clothes lines cut the field into uneven ribbons: peculiar markers of territory, an unspoken contract that had never been set down in word or deed, and yet was observed religiously. The market-gardener’s abandoned house, the footprints in the long-dried grass, even the city itself, the distant echo of which only emphasised the serenity of this place, added to the illusion of a location only inhabited by ghosts _in potentia_ : it was life and decay, utility and abandonment. It was the summer’s last breath in Paris, both celebrating and mourning it’s own existence, as if August of 1831 had been the last one on the earth.

Jean Prouvaire loved it. But for a moment, he couldn’t breathe.

“It’s called the Field of Lark,” Bahorel murmured, the warm breath against his neck an answer to the unspoken question. “There are stories told about this place – rumours, mostly, or perhaps ghost stories is a more accurate description, about Ulbach the murderer and the shepherdess of Ivry.” There was something almost tentative in the way the warm hands shifted across his shoulders, down his arms, across his back. Jean Prouvaire could read the questions in them: _Are you alright? Where did you go?_ He forced himself to relax, letting the curiosity about the tragic history of the meadow to fill his mind, allowing himself to believe that the strange grief flooding his heart was only for the fate of the fair shepherdess.

* * *

 

“See, I told you it was going to rain,” Bahorel noted, far too cheerfully in Jean Prouvaire’s opinion.

He glowered at his friend from the spot he had settled himself into, his back pressed against the wall of the gardener’s house, the narrow awning barely useful as a shelter against the elements. Bahorel in his turn had settled himself under a poplar tree a few feet from the building, which he had supplemented with a makeshift roof made of linens forgotten on the clothes lines: hardly a perfect cover, but, Jean Prouvaire was forced to grumpily concede, a significantly more effective one than his own.

“How did you know it would rain anyway?” he groused, well-aware that he was sounding ridiculous, but far too exhausted and sore to bring himself to care. He was not going to be the first one to admit defeat, he was _not_.

Bahorel laughed again. “Peasant lad, remember? When mother nature is the one responsible for your bread and butter, you learn to pay good attention to what she’s telling you.” He observed his shivering friend, the softening in expression perceptible even in the rapidly approaching darkness. “Prouvaire. Je-han. Come here.”

Prouvaire pulled his blanket up to his chin. “Not cold,” he groused, trying to ignore the voice of reason in the back of his head, wailing about being trapped in a mind of an overgrown five-year-old.

“Well, _I’m_ cold” Bahorel huffed, patting at the spot by his side. “Come now, would you really care to explain to Joly how you let me catch pneumonia? It will be all very devastatingly dramatic I’m sure, a good story to tell your grandchildren, but surely you will be at least a little unhappy when I die?”

Later, Jean Prouvaire will tell himself – grudgingly, a bit belligerently even – that it was the cold and dampness and his friends blatant generosity in allowing him such a dignified surrender that prompted him to move from his spot to Bahorel’s side, not the cold shard that stuck into his soul at those last words, an almost superstitious need to wrap his arms around his friend and to make sure he was still there. For the time being, it was all he could do to let go after a moment, to settle himself into a position that allowed for sharing the warmth and wrapping the blankets around both of them without leaving any cracks. Once again, he was aware of the curious-concerned presence by his side, but once again, Bahorel didn’t ask, merely squeezing him a bit more tightly against his side, and for each time that happened, Jean Prouvaire loved him a little bit more.

It was Bahorel who broke the sombre silence, deliberately light-hearted as he uncovered the bottle of good Anjou wine that he had liberated from Courfeyrac’s supplies, crowing over his gumption, before pulling the opened bottle out of reach.

“Ah, but a drink for a story! You never told me how come you have slept outside before, city-boy. And don’t say hunting lodges, that doesn’t count.”

Jean Prouvaire huffed out a laugh, making a half-hearted grab for the bottle before settling down for an explanation. “I wasn’t _only_ a city-boy, you know. My parents travelled a lot. Before I was sent off to school, they often had me spend entire seasons with my mother’s aunt, who had made home in a small town not far from Grenoble.” He sighed, a bit wistful. “She was an excellent lady, in her own way. Not much of a caregiver, I can see that now, but kind and generous in the way she understood. We had much in common – she kept a splendid library. Any book I wanted, she let me have, as long as I was careful with them. Any questions I had on my readings, she answered with remarkable patience. She was the one who taught me basics of Italian, Greek and Hebrew, even political theory, for all that she wasn’t particularly interested in the subject. It was enough that I was. But anything that happened outside of the library, she had little interest in. That’s where we differed. She kept a maidservant, who made sure I was fed and clothed, but when I tired of the books, I went out and run around the town and surrounding woods unchecked.”

Prouvaire fell silent for a moment, using the wine as a prop to give his pause an air of deliberation, even as he tried to gather long-discarded memories into a coherent narratives. When he continued, his voice was almost shameful. “I had friends, of a sort – we played together, but I was always half a stranger to them, a city boy with no chores or duties or even a bedtime. I couldn’t understand it then, I had a desire for adventure and couldn’t see why it mattered that they’d all be home by sundown, when I could easily stay out past midnight with no worse consequence than a missed dinner.

There was a map in my great-aunt’s library, of the town and surrounding areas. I didn’t think much of it at the time – I was nine, perhaps ten years old – but the map was well over sixty years out of date and while the town itself hadn’t changed much, not all of the information was reliable. There was a small lake on it, deep in the forest, though not as deep as my childish fancy would have it. But all my companions swore up and down they had never even heard of the lake, let alone seen it. It was quite an argument.” Here Prouvaire broke off, craning his neck to look at his friend. “You can probably already see where this is going.”

Bahorel grinned, an expression that was almost obscured by the darkness, but easily recognizable in his voice all the same. “Let me guess. You lead the expedition of brave explorers into unknown territory, but it turned out the lake wasn’t there any more.”

“It wasn’t there any more,” Jean Prouvaire agreed, snagging back the wine bottle and giving it a mournful look. “Turned out, it hadn’t been there for nearly forty years. But I wasn’t so easily deterred. We kept searching for what must have been at least four hours and had it been up to me, we’d have continued for another four. Naturally, by the time it was late enough that my friends were anxious to get back, we realised we couldn’t see the sun any more and none of us was sure of the direction it had set in – oh stop laughing at me.”

“Sorry, sorry,” Bahorel chuckled, not sounding sorry in the slightest. “But Prouvaire my friend, you once got lost on _Île de la Cité!_ I’d dread to see your efforts at navigating a forest at night, exciting as it must have been.”

“It was very exciting,” Prouvaire admitted. “Though my companions didn’t see it that way. They had grown up with stories of dire warning about wolves and other wild beasts, even brigands. But it all seemed so fantastic to me, I couldn’t sense any real danger. I suppose that’s why they were all so upset with me afterwards – they were rightfully anxious about the dangers and their parents’ concern and I kept acting like it was all some exciting adventure and the best thing that had ever happened to me.”

He sighed, taking a sip of wine. “We spent a very restless night under the trees and found our way out around sunrise. The moment we could see the town in the valley under us, Pierre turned around and gave me a black eye. Marie-Louise didn’t speak to me for _three years_ , said her mother claimed I was trouble.” A mournful smile. “She must have been very upset with me – Marie-Louise wasn’t what you’d call an obedient child.”

Bahorel gave a loud bark of laugh, before growing serious. “Their loss,” It was completely dark now: with the added layer of cloud cover, Jean Prouvaire couldn’t see his expression at all, but something deep inside his soul grew warm with indescribable tenderness. When Bahorel continued, there was a softness to his voice that Jean Prouvaire had only heard a handful of times, and almost always when they are alone. “I would have explored all the forests and lakes and lost places with you, chores and bedtimes and wolves be damned, I hope you know that.”

“Of course,” Jean Prouvaire could only answer, the words suddenly hard to make sense of, glad for the privacy that darkness afforded them. “You _like_ wolves.”

“Oh come here,” Bahorel murmured. “You are still shivering and the wine is gone. It’s neither a real protest nor a real liberation, if we don’t work together to keep each other warm.”

“It’s cold out there.” Prouvaire muttered, momentarily distracted as he peered into the darkness. “They were right to be upset. People shouldn’t… shouldn’t have to..”

“Damn right anyone shouldn’t have to live like this.” How did Bahorel always seem know what he was trying to say? He made a mental note to deliberate on this when he was more than half awake and sober. There was a rustle of clothing in the darkness, a bristle of the beard brushing against his nose under the light kiss pressed on his forehead. “We’ll write about it. In the morning. And then we will fight for it. Now come here and keep warm.”

They were already sitting tightly side-by-side, with their arms around each other and cocooned into a double layer of blankets. How were they going to get any closer was anyone’s guess, but it didn’t matter, Jean Prouvaire decided. They always found a way.

* * *

 

“Oh come now,” Courfeyrac grumbled, narrowing his eyes against the glare of the early morning sunlight on the wet grass, as he took in a tableau in front of him. “Who gave them a right to look so adorable, when I have neither paper nor charcoal, let alone Feuilly’s talent for capturing a moment!”

Joly had other concerns “They are going to be terribly sore when they wake up,” he noted, observing Bahorel still propped up against the poplar trunk, Jean Prouvaire all but curled up in a ball, with his head on Bahorel’s chest and his legs folded together under Bahorel’s knees. “Not that they don’t deserve it, mind. What a thought, to sleep under a tree in this weather!”

“They seem to be warm enough,” Courfeyrac noted with an amusement, glancing around. “Should we wake them? No doubt the washerwomen will be up and about any moment now and the coffee is getting cold.”

“No, leave them be,” Bossuet grinned. “When the ladies see what a sweet spectacle they make, they might be forgiven for wrecking the laundry.”


End file.
